


Hey There, Delilah, You Wrote Your Letters With Red Gel Pen

by StarlitBawka



Series: Ghost DaveJake Cinematic Universe [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (Wish me luck this site is CONFUSING), (for like a single scene), (past) - Freeform, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ghost Dave Strider, HarleyEnglishEgbert bonding time, He has a drunken breakdown but he's getting better, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jake gets drunk, Jake's really goin through it now, Jake's ringtone for Roxy is Dancing With A Stranger by Cyndi Lauper, June and Jade are good relatives, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Major character death - Freeform, My First AO3 Post, POV Alternating, and kinda, because hes a ghost, coding this was a bitch its exhausting, ghost au, it's a healing process, mourning of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlitBawka/pseuds/StarlitBawka
Summary: Jake English's boyfriend has been on the run for months, sending him a letter every week written in red gel pen with a CD of "Hey There Delilah".One week, Jake never gets his letter.Part of my Paranormal Series- A bunch of vaguely connected one-shots taking place in a no SBURB AU. (AKA The Ghost DaveJake Cinematic Universe OR The "Songs for all the universes your boyfriend becomes a member of the paranormal" series.)
Relationships: Jake English/Dave Strider
Series: Ghost DaveJake Cinematic Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071527
Kudos: 8





	Hey There, Delilah, You Wrote Your Letters With Red Gel Pen

Your name is Jake English. You are a 19-year-old male who moved to Texas for your boyfriend. 4 months ago, said boyfriend, Dave Strider, went away for “work”. But you sincerely doubted that even as he was leaving. He works at the antique store 3 blocks down from the house. And he sent in his notice the proper 30 days before this event.

  


Dave always was good with time.

  


The only reason you hadn’t notified the authorities (aside from the fact that you were certain the scoundrels wouldn’t help), was because every week, you get a letter. It’s addressed to you in the name only he calls you, in handwriting only he has, and in a pen only he would use.

  


Sparkly red gel pen.

  


In these letters, he tells you silly things. How he loves you, how he hopes you’re happy, and how he swears he’s coming home soon. Along with some things he’s seen. There is always a single constant in these letters, and it’s the CDs he sends in them. All the same song. Some melancholy, horror-esque version of some Alternative song by some band about T-Shirts. American things were weird, you had come to learn.

  


  


-

  


  


Your name is Dave Strider. And for the past 4 months, you have been on the run. You had felt Him there. It was small at first, barely noticeable, and easily brushed off as paranoia. Just little things. A shadow in the corner of your eye, the fleeting thought that you hear a second person breathing when you’re alone. It wasn’t until you managed to catch view of _Him_ watching through the window of the store an hour before you got off work. Normal people wouldn’t have noticed; would’ve thought that He just happened to spare a passing glance as He was walking into the restaurant next door. But you knew better. Knew Him better. That’s when you realized He’d been around longer than you’d thought. You ran away when you were 13. Six years of hiding, of Him not trying to find you, though you know He could’ve. So why was he back now?

  


That didn’t matter. All that did matter, was that He found you. And you had to get away. Not even just to save yourself. You had friends now. A family. And you couldn’t let Him get to them. Besides, if you leave now, He might think you died or something, so if you waited long enough you could come right back home.

  


Right?

  


You were wrong. You were so, _so_ wrong.

  


  


-

  


  


You finally thought you could start heading home. It had been 5 months, and you haven’t heard or seen a single lick of Bro. You were going to send Jake this one last letter and head on your way.

  


You took the back streets. It was in an alleyway by an Olive Garden. You had always loved Olive Gardens.

  


A fitting place to die, you suppose.

  


It goes like this: You’re walking in the alley by the Olive Garden, fiddling with your note, CD in your hands. And then you hear the voice.

  


“Bout time I finally caught up to you, Lil man.”

  


And that’s when you knew you were done for. There was no use trying to plead with him. You didn’t even have the time to put away the envelope or the disk before he was on you.

  


And you wish you could say it was quick and merciful.

  


Long story short and friendly as it can get, you got absolutely shredded. You try not to think about it. Before they finally caught him he had thrown your mangled body into the garbage. It had taken your body a week to be found, about 30 hours to get a solid guess on who killed you (based on security cameras and eye-witness reports), and another three weeks for them to find Bro.

  


  


-

  


  


Six months. It has now been six months since Dave Strider went missing. And it has been 4 weeks since anyone has heard from him.

  


Your name is Jake English and you’ve been trying your best not to worry. One day, the letters just stopped coming. You figured it was due to a storm or something, and that it would just be a bit late (not that there was any set time for these letters to get here, to begin with). And then a week passed, and there was no note. Two. Three. But you kept up hope! You have to be the optimist in the group, it's the HarleyEnglishCrockerBert job! Even if June and Jade have been...more than pessimistic about it. But you’re sure he’ll return soon!

  


You’re sure.

  


It’s a few days after the 4-week absence mark that you get the call. It’s early-about 8 AM. Your phone blasts a familiar tune by one Cyndi Lauper that you really can’t be bothered to remember the name of. The chipper, 80s tune is almost ironic compared to the sheer heartbreak you hear on the other side of the call.

  


“Jakey...” Oh.

  


“Roxy? What on Earth are you doing up so early on a Sunday morning? Normally one would find yourself so conked out on a day such as this that-”

  


“Jake, please. Not...not now.” She sounded awful. This was out of the norm even when Miss Lalonde was hungover or just awoken. Her voice seemed raw and wet and quiet and so...unusual.

  


“What in blazes is going on? Roxy are you sick? Pardon me, but you sound like shit!”

  


The girl on the other side was quiet for a moment. “The T.V., Jakey. Turn it on. The...the news.”

  


Jake’s brow furrowed. That was...odd. None-the-less, he was not going to argue with Roxy. Not when she sounded so distraught. So he turned on the news. Good ol’ Channel 4, one of the few channels the shitty cable actually got the home. It was Dave’s idea.

  


“And we’ll have more information on the upcoming multiplayer UHC Minecraft tournament taking place this Thursday after a brief intermission with our on-scene reporter Taykla Sopova. I have been Ecno Nhiaga. Take it away, Miss Sopova.”

  


The setting shifted to some troll woman standing in front of an alley-way, seemingly by some restaurant of sorts.

  


“Thank you, Mister Nhiaga. I’m here in downtown Houston at the Olive Garden on Southwest Freeway, where the body of a young man has been discovered in the trash, along with his alleged killer.“

  


Suddenly, everything stands still. You hope that this isn’t going where you think it is, but the sound of Roxy’s quiet sob is enough to tell you all you need to know before the pictures even show up on the screen.

  


The droopy-eyed, pouty-mouthed face of your boyfriend shows up on the left side of your screen. On the right is a tall, intimidating man with piercing orange eyes. He looks like Dirk, if Dirk wore a hat, had stubble, and was just in general buffer, taller, and horrifying in any way.

  


“Three weeks ago, the mutilated body of David Elizabeth Strider was found by Olive Garden employee Elos Berleen while moving out the trash. Evidence shows that the boy was murdered by his father, Broderick Strider, who has made no statement to the public. He will be on trial on the 27th of this month.”

  


It was at this point you oh so eloquently dropped your phone and sank to your knees. But you didn’t cry. How could you? You...you had to be strong for the others. Nobody would take this well. You had to be there for your friends. You didn’t have time for tears. So you gave yourself 5 minutes to mourn and you grabbed your phone, picked yourself up, and set to work on contacting officials and all of Dave’s friends.

  


  


-

  


  


For about a month, you’ve been preparing. Sending condolences, meeting with his family, and setting up the funeral. You almost didn’t remember Broderick’s trial. But you did. Of course you did. You went. You, Roxy, Dirk, and Rose. And obviously, all the evidence pointed to it being him. There were also some accusations of various other illegal things he did around or to Dirk and Dave. Things that would be looked into at a later date.

  


Where were you? Oh, right. The funeral is today. You adjust your bowtie and take a deep breath as you prepare for the bombardment of pity. I’m sorrys, my condolences, and the like. You prepare for your speech. You listen to Jade’s, to June’s, to Roxy’s, to Dirk’s, to Rose’s. You begin your own, smile plastered impossibly wide onto your face the entire time. You pause, several times, in fact, to control your emotions. You’re fine! You are fine.

  


The audience laughs quite a few times during the eulogy. This is good. It’s what he would’ve wanted. The boy may have been a drama queen, but make no mistake; he wanted tears of laughter when he died. You played his songs. The ones he made and released; the ones he never got to give to the world; the one he sent you in his letters.

  


The burial had been quick. You made it so. Didn’t want anyone to bask in the misery for too long, did you? Absolutely not! Bugger to that, you say. And then was the reception.

  


You’re sitting with your dear cousin Jade, and dear cousin June. It’s nice to finally have the time to just sit and talk with the two of them. Cripes, it’s been so long!

  


“Jake! We’ve missed you at the Crocker regulated and approved HarleyglishCrockerbert brunch meetings! It’s been so long since you last came to one :0”

  


You brush off Jade’s worries with a chuckle. “Well, when you’re busy as I’ve been as of late, you are rarely found with a lick of time for yourself! Funeral preparation and condolences are no easy task!”

  


June wraps an arm around you. Ever the one for physical comfort, that gal! “Lucky for you, we’re going on a trip! Just the three of us! Some Harleyglishbert shenanigans! Jane’s on an out of town business trip this week, so she can’t come.”

  


“Alrighty, then? Err...pardon if this sounds a bit daft, but...what’s with the suddenness of this? I’ve still got so much left to do, anyway!”

  


Jade frowns. “Jake, we’ve been trying to get a hold of you for this for days! You’ve brushed us off. Besides, there isn’t exactly much else you could really have going on. And I know that. >:/”

  


And those girls continued to pester you about this very topic for the rest of the reception. You were just about at your limit with it! But you didn’t want things to escalate any further. You were tired. So you begrudgingly confirmed that you would be joining them.

  


Maybe less begrudging than you care to admit.

  


  


-

  


  


Every bit of yourself is going to blame the meltdown on empathy for your dear relatives.

  


Here you are, a 20-year-old man, sobbing all over this hotel couch with a bottle of whiskey in your hand. June rests a comforting hand on your shoulder.

  


“Let it all out, big guy. It’s okay. Things are slowing down and you finally have time to sort yourself out on it all. It’s okay.”

  


Heavens to Betsy, it wasn’t okay. None of this was supposed to be happening! You weren’t supposed to be here, you weren’t supposed to be crying, and Dave wasn’t supposed to be dead! You don’t understand how everyone else is just so...CALM about it! So you say just that.

  


“R...rightyo, as you say it’s all okay, as if we’re allowed to just...be totally FINE with the fact that...the fact that he was murdered! Brutally! With no solid reasoning! And now-now I’m not one to talk, obviously, but by GOD, June! All we...all we all did was MOURN? As if crying is going to...get us ANYWHERE at all?”

  


You sound half out of your mind and you aren’t sure the points you were trying to hit here. But you blubbered out words anyways, and you’re assuming June half listened-or at least played along with your mutterings.

  


You tuckered yourself out soon after.

  


  


-

  


  


Never let it be said that you could possibly forget about the ones you’ve lost. You haven’t yet forgotten about your dear Grandma English, whom you cremated yourself on that island. You haven’t forgotten Pop-Pop or Nanna or Grandpa Harley. And you certainly will never forget about him. About your dear, dear Dave Strider. Every day you make the trek to his gravestone. It’s a lovely thing, really. One of those fancy ones in the Lalonde mausoleum’s general area. You’re sure it cost Miss Roxanne Lalonde a pretty penny. It had a statue of a crow on it. Whenever you come you bring flowers from Jade’s shop. Red ones and green ones. With these flowers, you bring a bottle of apple juice.

  


At first, the apple juice was just going to be a one-time thing. Leave him a bottle in respect. But when you came by the next day, the bottle was empty. But there were no signs of it being open.

  


And then you felt it. Make no mistake, Jake English isn’t much of a spiritual man. Never really one to believe fully in spirits and ghouls. But you couldn’t deny the way it felt as if he was right behind you, thin arms wrapping around you in a ghastly embrace.

  


Your dear Dave would never be truly gone. Not really. He would wait for you; as long as it would take. And in turn, would you wait for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hwonk hwonk thank you for making it to the end of this!!! I made like. Three people cry with this fic and I KNOW it isn't the best but I put a lot of time into it so I figured I should post it somewhere I could be proud of it. 
> 
> (I really hope I coded this right and shit. I really have no idea how to post on AO3 yet.)
> 
> As mentioned, it's part of a series of one-shots, of which I will get around to finishing and posting in my own time, hopefully. Why they aren't just all a continuous series is because I have had serious commitment issues with all of my multi-chapter fics in the past and I don't want to end up leaving more abandoned works. At least this way, if I decide to drop it, People won't be waiting for a continuation that won't occur. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading!


End file.
